Death of a Red Heroine

to Chief Inspector Chen and the Rosenthals.
    It had been a wonderful night for her. If there was one thing she had missed, it was that Yu had not danced and sung with her. A short man also rose from a table near the entrance, following Chen and his companions out of the hall. She might have been too suspicious, but she made sure that she was not followed before she started to look for Yu outside.
    The summer night breeze was pleasant. Yu was waiting for her under a blossoming dogwood tree, still wearing his glasses and smoking a cigarette. There was a black car beside him. To her surprise, she saw Shi Qong waving to her from the car. One of their colleagues in the Yunnan years, Shi had worked as a driver at a petrochemical company since coming back to Shanghai.
    It was not the only car waiting along the curb. Nor was it a luxurious one. It was a Dazhong, a product of a Shanghai and Volkswagen joint venture. It was enough, however, that a car was waiting for them. A perfect finishing touch to the night. Yu had been thoughtful to make the arrangement—so romantic.
    There could be nothing more repulsive than having to squeeze into a bus—especially on such a summer night—in her borrowed dress.
    The tall girl also came out, smiling at Yu with renewed interest, but she strutted away at the sight of Yu holding the door for Peiqin.
    “Have you had a wonderful evening?” Shi asked.
    “Yes. Thank you for your car.”
    “You’re most welcome,” Shi said. “Your husband says you’ve been so popular tonight. He had no choice but to wait for you outside.”
    “No, he just wants to smoke outside.” She smiled.
    On their way home, Yu did not mention the case at all. Nor did she. They talked about the songs they had sung tonight— though not together. They had to be discreet in the presence of others. She was learning fast.
    Instead, she played her right hand lightly over the front of Yu’s white shirt, a shirt he himself had carefully ironed for the party. Then she tilted her head to one side in a mock-serious assessment.
    “Not too bad,” she said, pouting her lips provocatively.
    All she needed was the feeling of Yu holding her hand tightly in the backseat.

Chapter 33
    M onday was Chief Inspector Chen’s first day back in his office.
    Nominally, Chen was still head of the special case squad. Most of his colleagues greeted him cordially, but he sensed a subtle change in the office. No one mentioned the case to him, nothing but empty, polite talk. People must have heard about the twists and turns of the investigation.
    Commissar Zhang, who was not in the office, was said to be on vacation, but how long or why, no one could tell him.
    Detective Yu was away on a temporary assignment—temporarily suspended—just like him.
    Presently Party Secretary Li telephoned. “Comrade Chief Inspector, welcome back to the bureau. You have done an excellent job. The American guests have just sent us a fax expressing their thanks, especially for your hard work. They have a very high opinion of you.”
    “Thank you for telling me this.”
    But the Americans’ praise could easily be interpreted as another indication of his affiliation with Western bourgeois culture.
    “Take a break,” Li said. “We’ll talk about your work in a couple of days, okay?”
    The Party Secretary’s voice sounded smooth, but his words merely confirmed Chen’s suspicion.
    “Fine,” he said, “but I’ve been away for several days already.”
    “Don’t work too much, young man. We are actually thinking about a vacation for you.”
    “I don’t need a vacation, Party Secretary Li. I’ve had enough of sightseeing and opera-watching.”
    “Don’t worry, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. I’ll talk to you next week.”
    It was nothing new—the always-politically-correct Party Secretary discourse. The case had not been mentioned. There was no point in discussing it on the phone, they both understood only too well.
    There was nothing he could do now in the Guan investigation, and nothing else he could really bring himself to focus on. There was some routine political paperwork on his desk, accumulated during his absence. Signing his name to the Party documents he was supposed to read was increasingly vexatious. Once more, his temples started drumming. He pulled out the drawer and found an aspirin bottle. Tapping two pills into his palm, he gulped them down. He looked out of his cubicle. Most of his colleagues had left for lunch. After locking